


Safe Place

by emptypockets



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Claustrophobia, Hurt/Comfort, for both the doctor and yaz, jack to the rescue bc we all know that’s what’s gonna happen, reunion fic with extra steps, the fam thinks the doctor is dead and i’m upset about it, they deserve to be happy in each other’s viscinity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptypockets/pseuds/emptypockets
Summary: She’s tapped out over 47 million seconds against her palm, and her hand is only just now beginning to cramp up.Another ticks by. Another after that.And same as the 47,304,051.8 million previous, no one comes.Then, someone does.
Comments: 71
Kudos: 321





	1. claustrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> The Timeless Children might be my new favorite episode. I’m completely blown away and have a LOT TO PROCESS 
> 
> I don’t think this will be longer than 4 or 5 chapters but let’s see if I get carried away. The end goal here is just a really really big hug

There’s no one guarding her. Endless silence is never once broken by the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door, no one ever stopping by to check she isn’t trying to escape. It’s that, not the thirty-seven deadlocks between her and her freedom, that makes the Doctor certain there’s no way out. 

She’s never been good at being still. Stasis and stability have never come naturally, whereas running is something the Doctor’s always felt like she’s made for. It’s linear, it’s constant, it’s distracting.

This prison cell in the furthest corner of the most looked-over galaxy, buried within an even more uninteresting section of the universe and hidden behind a cluster of stars and gasses is far too small for her. 

Knees are drawn to her chest, back pressed against the wall with the comfort of the universe casting a pale glow through the barred window above her head. She hasn’t moved from that spot in days. 

It’s been 18 months, on the dot. She’s been ticking off the passage of time by the second with the tapping of her fingers against her palm. Even on those rare, blissful occasions that she manages to achieve slumber, she still keeps track. Wakes up with a number in her head - how many seconds she’s been unconscious, and it’s never enough. 

She’s tapped out over 47 _million_ seconds against her palm, and her hand is only just now beginning to cramp up. 

Another ticks by. Another after that. 

And same as the 47,304,051.8 million previous, no one comes. 

She’s had 18 months to find a way out of this cold, quiet, horribly dark holding cell, but all her plans are half formed. Catching a snag on step two, or three. Her record is four, but she’s never seen step five. She _dreams_ of step five. She’s beginning to forget what it feels like to be successful; to _win._

It’s been 18 months of no sound, no stimulus, and the same image before her eyes over and over and _over,_ and she’s so tired of looking at it. So tired of the dark, the quiet, the emptiness, the _loneliness,_ and she has been since day one. 

The Doctor doesn’t like small spaces. She doesn’t like not being able to move freely. Here in this cell she’s got enough room to stand, pace around a bit, stretch her legs enough to keep them in working order, but not enough room to run. 

She tried, on night one, and a few dozen nights after that. She remembers feeling a bit like an animal, let loose from it’s cage into a space not much larger. Not enough room to run, to find relief from the thunderstorm of everything she’s learned banging ruthlessly inside her skull, and it very nearly drove her mad. 

She ran anyways, on that first night. Flinging herself from one end of the cell to the other, taking small steps but moving as fast as she possibly could only to smack straight into the opposing wall. She did it over, and over, and _over,_ without enough space to reach full speed, to obtain any level of satisfaction; relief, _familiarity._ Running allows her to feel like herself. 

It was so frustrating. _So_ very frustrating, not having the ability to release those endorphins. All that pent up energy squeezed her hearts painfully, brought a permanent tremor to her hands. She hasn’t managed to calm them since. 

Now, she’s used to it. She’s discovered new defenses, new coping mechanisms that her mind took the liberty of developing when it began running on fumes from lack of stimulus when she’s accustomed to _everything_ but. 

So she locks herself away in a safe corner of her mind. There aren’t many of those - the vast majority of her subconscious is a polluted sea of nightmares and unanswered questions. She spent so many nights huddled in the dark, curled in the middle of her cell with the stars beyond the single window dancing in her field of view as she wondered, despaired, cried out into the indefinite silence that she doesn’t know who she is. The quiet always played its given role, and never gave an explanation. She doesn’t know if the answers she seeks even exist, but she’ll never find them here in the dark. The deep and lovely dark _. We’d never see the stars without it._

The safe, peaceful, yet loud and vibrant corner of her mind becomes the only thing keeping her head in one relatively stable piece. There, when she closes her eyes and concentrates _very_ hard, she’s with her fam, showing them everything she never got the chance to. Taking them to various places and planets deep in her memory because there was _so much more_ she wanted them to see. They’re happy there, in her safe place, the four of them. _She’s_ happy. She’s so content in their presence. 

The adventures her restless consciousness creates are realistically never without danger, also never without victory. She’s entirely in control, when she’s there. Fizzing with ideas and fully formed plans that always work on the first go. They escape, they seize the day, they save _everyone,_ every single time, and it’s exhilarating. She almost feels alive. 

But only when her eyes are closed. 

She misses it. She misses _them,_ impossibly, more than anything, and it never hurts any less to open her eyes and find her friends absent. 

The Doctor hasn’t budged in two days, because she, Yaz, Ryan and Graham are in the middle of a bit of a tricky one this time. Her subconscious has taken to challenging her on their last few fictional adventures; a new tactic at keeping her cogs turning, perhaps. Keep her stimulated. Or maybe, finally, she’s simply beginning to slip. Losing her touch, her quick-thinking, her box full of _ways out_ no longer bottomless, and running dangerously low. 

The Doctor continues to tap out the passage of time with one hand flattening and closing repeatedly, automated, as she drops her forehead to her knees and forces herself deeper into her delusions. 

The ventures played out by her subconscious are often broken apart and not put together properly, like a dream. And same as a dream, her imagination fills in the blanks, makes them make sense, and doesn’t question anything. 

_“Yaz, stay calm.”_ In her head, the Doctor’s voice is collected and confident, piggybacking off of the trust she sees in Yaz’s eyes as the security camera zooms in on her face. 

_“I’m calm.”_ She quips back, and the Doctor believes her. _“It’s Graham you should be saying that to.”_

 _“Doc, I think it’s close.”_ Graham’s voice comes through her earpiece as an urgent whisper, and from her place on the monitoring platform she sees his head poke out of his hiding place and into the spaceship’s corridor. 

_“Should probably shut up, then!”_ Ryan’s just outside of his closest camera’s range of view, but his words come through crystal clear. 

_“Graham, get back in the broom closet.”_ The Doctor orders over Ryan’s snicker. 

_“Yeah, Graham, back in the broom closet.”_

She’s forgotten why she’s standing there, flicking through live security feed on a monitor in the ship’s control room and guiding her friends through it’s corridors from a safe distance as… _something_ stalks the three of them. Seems like every time she blinks the adversary takes a different form, a different piece of a different memory or _multiple_ memories being used to create a monster to fit the story. Her mind can’t make its own mind up on which one suits the current scenario best. 

“ _You’re fine, you two, just stay where you are.”_ When static crackles in her ear, the Doctor raises a hand to make sure the piece is secure. _“Yaz I’m telling_ you _to stay calm because it’s just round the corner from where you’re hiding. Keep quiet, keep still, it should walk right past you.”_

She can hear Yaz’s steady breathing loud and prominent. She’s calm, and far too at ease, even when the creature comes to a stop outside her door. 

The Doctor’s never experienced anxiety in this place before, but her movements are hitched and hurried with doubling nerves as she taps and swipes the screen to examine Yaz’s surroundings. 

_“Yaz, don't say a word, walk very quietly to the door behind you. It’ll take you to the engine room, there’s a lift in there that’ll get you back up to the main level and I’m two lefts and one big step away after that.”_

Yaz does as she’s told, and the Doctor feels a tad calmer. _Right, there we go._ There’s _always_ a way out. Almost there now… 

The creature hasn’t moved on. Instead it’s taken increased interest in the door separating it, and the human it’s now loudly sniffing out. The Doctor doesn’t remember heightened sense of smell being a known fact of the creature a few moments ago, but accepts it, and fears it. 

_“It knows you’re in there.”_ She warns, to Yaz’s immediate dismay as she tries the door she’s directed to. 

_“It’s locked. I can't get out.”_ Her voice should be broken up with fear - she should be _afraid_ right now, but the Doctor seems to be absorbing it all, concern for her friend spiraling into something on the edge of panic. 

Yaz’s eyes, emphasized through the camera’s high definition and the monitor’s easy blue tint, are trusting. Expecting. Waiting. 

_Plan?_ They ask. Still confident, still blissfully faithful. 

“I… er...” The Doctor stammers, hands braced the sides of the monitor as she leans in close, searching for another way out. 

“Doctor?” 

There’s always a way out. 

But the creature is now digging violently at the base of the door, and small as it is, the Doctor somehow knows that it’ll break through in a heartbeat. 

The Doctor yanks the earpiece off her head and sprints out of the control room, calling Yaz’s name, because Yaz is calling hers. 

She runs, and runs, and _runs._ Those _two lefts and a big step_ are now a much farther distance, and after ages of running she wonders if she’ll ever cross it. Good thing that here, she’ll never run out of breath, though it’s starting to feel like she might, for the first time. Fear is quickly tightening her chest. 

The lack of control is suddenly overwhelming. The point of getting lost in her own head is that she has _full_ control, but hard as she tries, she can’t change the story. 

An ear-splitting crash reverberates through the darkness, and it yanks her back into the real world like a fish on a hook. 

It’s the first sound she’s heard besides her own footsteps, her own voice when she tells herself stories, in eighteen months. That’s not her biggest shock of the hour. 

Bright, positively blinding artificial light attacks her vision through the hole that’s been blown through the wall. A figure steps between her and the source, and the Doctor lowers the hand shielding her squinting eyes to adjust to the contrast. 

Captain Jack Harkness stands with his hands on his hips, slack-jawed in exxagerated awe. “Now, inevitably, I knew you were gonna be gorgeous -”

“- Jack?” She’s not entirely convinced the man standing over her isn’t simply her mind’s new efforts at preserving itself. She was in need of an update. 

His eyes crinkle with an excited grin, and he looks so pleased to see her that it’s enough to confirm reality. 

“But Doctor, you’ve outdone yourself.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always really encouraging and appreciated :) I’m hoping I can keep up my writing buzz through the whole hiatus


	2. underwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, back with another! 
> 
> Very strong themes and descriptions of depression in this chapter because Yaz is NOT having a good time right now, but things are gonna start looking up. The last thing I want to do is drag anyone down so if you do read this chapter, please read with care!

It’s been 18 months, and Yaz isn’t doing well.

Day one, when the TARDIS dropped them all at home, Yaz found herself caught in a fight between her debilitating grief and a determination not to let it pull her head underwater. It was relatively easy at first, when bereavement morphed into involuntary hope and brought a welcomed lightness to her heart. A firm, blind belief that the Doctor was alive. 

She _had_ to have survived, Yaz told herself, on the pure basis of all the Doctor’s past impossible victories. She’s clever, and often the answers don’t come until the countdown is nearly over. 

Days two through forty-three, Yaz told herself this every morning, and every night. 

She’s clever.

She’s impossible. 

_She can’t be dead._

Yaz hasn’t been the same since day forty-four.

Her family is beyond worried. Kind and caring through their hopelessness; their inability to do a _thing_ to lift her spirits. Yaz doesn’t even know if she has a spirit to lift anymore. She hasn’t had as much as a reason to smile in months. She barely held down her job for the first twelve months back on earth, Yaz’s previous sabbaticals and call ins few and far between just enough to keep her from getting sacked. They were patient with her at the station, for some reason. As her motivation and previous ambitions visibly dissipated before her superiors’ eyes, affecting her performance, her drive, her _everything,_ they were remarkably tolerable. 

For a while, at least. 

Yaz lost her job six months ago, and hasn’t found another. Hasn’t even tried to find another, because that requires getting out of bed, getting out of the house, and stepping into a world that’s rotating far too slowly. 

The passage of time is irreverent to her. The next minute, day, week, she’ll still be stuck on the same planet, in the same solar system, in the same galaxy, and the Doctor will still be dead. 

She tries her best not to think about it. Or anything. Some days are easier than others, some days she’s out of bed at a decent time, stomachs a hearty breakfast, and spends her day socializing with her family or reading on the sofa instead of holed up in her bedroom. 

Today is not one of those days. 

The time on Yaz’s phone reads _3:49pm_ as she burrows deep into her duvet, drawing it tight around her body as she flicks numbly through various social media’s on her phone that she doesn’t post to anymore until she’s all caught up, switches to the next, and starts the rotation over. 

She’s only been awake for a couple of hours but hasn’t found the energy to get out of bed. Her limbs feel like they’re anchored to her mattress, frozen to their rightful place. She’s been lying there so long that it’s not even comfortable anymore, but the idea of looking anyone in the eye or having anyone look at _her_ makes her feel utterly sick.

She feels so alone, so lost, so without hope that she’s not sure what force is managing to maintain her beating heart. 

She never felt like this when the Doctor was around. She taught them, all of them, to be hopeful; to see the brighter side, to keep their heads high and hearts light until the day was won. 

But Yaz can’t win this one. Not without her. 

She dozes off and on, staring at the clock ticking on her dresser whenever her eyes open until she bores herself back into slumber. 

The clock reads _5:32pm_ when there’s a fragile knock on her door. 

“Yaz?” Sonya pushes her bedroom door open and pokes her head inside, crestfallen when she sees her sister still in place. She holds her phone up in one hand for show, and fails an attempt at an easy smile. “Ryan’s on the phone.” 

Yaz squints at her as she lifts her heavy head from her pillow and untangles the duvet from around her body. Her head is foggy and spinning from being inactive for so long, and she winces a bit, reaching out for the mobile with a careless hand and an empty tone. “Thanks.” 

Sonya’s been the most concerned out of Yaz’s immediates, the most knowledgeable of her condition and where she almost definitely fears it will lead. If anything, Sonya’s the one thing keeping her from entirely erasing her previous progress and letting go entirely. The worry, the love, the _I’m here for you_ in her eyes every single time she looks in Yaz’s direction, is just grounding enough. 

Sonya nods, dithering unsurely at the doorway for a moment before excusing herself, and Yaz flops back into bed with the phone pressed to her ear. 

“Hey, Ryan.” Her voice is thick and low, but she doesn’t have the will to up it. 

_“Hey Yaz.”_ He sounds both relieved and concerned over the phone, and Yaz realizes it’s been a while since she’s spoken to him. _“How’s it going?”_

“Oh, you know.” No energy, no energy whatsoever. Not to lie, nor to tell the truth, so she hopes he doesn’t press. “How are you two doing?” 

_“We’re alright, miss you tons, though.”_ After their exile to earth, Ryan and Graham would call her every day, invite her over for dinner every other. Consistently, without fail, for months, until she began to deny every call and every offer. _“Graham’s cookin’ - we thought you might want to come join us tonight?”_ He says it as a question, unsure and tentative, expecting her to turn him down. 

Yaz swallows, instinctively flicking through her store of excuses in search of the best one, and Ryan quickly translates her beat silence. 

_“Bad day?”_ He cuts straight through her thoughts, and Yaz doesn’t have time to come up with a suitable glossing over before he’s continuing. _“I mean, I know they’re all bad days, but -”_

She chuckles quietly, lifelessly into the receiver, and draws the duvet back over her shoulders. 

_“We’d really, really love to see you. It’s been four months now.”_

“Has it really?” Yaz wonders aloud, more to herself than to him. Time has felt like it’s absolutely dragging by, each nanosecond lengthened to a minute, each minute feeling like an eternity, yet somehow happening all at once. 

_“We’ll have plenty to talk about.”_ Ryan encourages. _“And Graham’s got a story to tell you about him getting attacked by a -”_

 _“Ryan! I said we’re_ not _telling Yaz about the pigeon.”_ Graham’s voice interjects, faint and in the distance. 

_“It’s funny!”_

_“It’s_ undignified _!”_

Yaz’s lips switch into a shadow of a smile as they bicker for a couple moments, and she finds herself content with the noise instead of irritated. 

_“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you if he doesn’t.”_ Ryan’s focus is back, lightness to his voice still in place from his bout with Graham. _“So what do you say?”_

She considers the offer, shifting restless legs beneath the covers, and it’s admittedly tempting. She misses them… a lot, actually. The Doctor wasn’t the only member of Yaz’s beloved second family, and the attachment she’d formed to the boys was strong and sentimental by the time their travels came to an end. A little too sentimental, Yaz had ended up discovering, when the time she’d spent with Ryan and Graham following their mutual loss only served to strengthen the strain on permanently heavy hearts. 

It’s difficult to be around them. She hates it, and hates herself a bit for it, but she feels everything a bit too much when she’s with them. Their faces are an unfortunate memory of the family member they’re missing. The ghost in the room. 

Ryan’s silence is tense and questioning, but Yaz can’t come up with a yes, or a no. 

“How did you end up gettin’ Sonya’s number?” She asks instead, if only to buy herself a little more time. 

_“She called me, actually.”_ His confession draws her lips into a confused frown. _“Said you haven’t been gettin’ out of bed and all, and… that you haven’t been getting any better.”_ There’s a touch of something unspoken there, an implication that he knows more than he’s revealing, but he’s trying to be quick. To the point. _“She’s proper worried about you, Yaz.”_

Yaz exhales slowly as his words sweep some of her trepidation under the rug, and teary eyes mindlessly drift to her bedroom door. _It’s always Sonya._

“I can be there ‘round 6:30, if that’s alright.” Yaz relents, and sluggishly starts to roll out of bed. “Might be 7:00. I need a shower.” 

There’s the smallest beat, and Yaz knows that it’s filled with Ryan’s smile. _“That’s perfect, Yaz. We’ll see you when you get here.”_

“Thanks, Ryan.” She says quietly, touched by his efforts, and ends the call. 

It’ll be nice to see him and Graham, even if it hurts. 

* * *

The stars are just coming into sight and the evening air is cooling by time Yaz is walking up to Ryan and Graham’s flat. She teeters on their doorstep when she reaches it, a hand pausing mid air when she goes to knock. 

Wariness freezes her in place, anxiety coiling in the pit of her stomach for reasons she can’t precisely identify, but Yaz forces herself to knock on the door regardless. She quickly shoves both hands into the pocket of her hoodie and takes a small backward when she hears footsteps on the other side, and the door swings open to the blessed sight of a giddy, smiling Graham O’Brien. 

“Yasmin Khan, you should be ashamed of yourself.” And she is, for an instant. Burning with guilt for keeping herself at a distance, kicking herself for being so _bloody selfish -_

But he’s not serious, never serious, always a laugh of relief at the most tense of times. Yaz’s regret melts away when she catches the kind, albeit sad glint in his eye. 

“Hi Graham.” She smiles tiredly, drawing her hands out of her pockets when Graham pulls her into a hug. 

“Come in then. Ryan!” He guides Yaz inside with a hand on her shoulder and shuts the door behind them, calling up the stairs. 

Ryan picks his way mindfully down the steps, placing one hand on the rail to move a little faster when he sees Yaz at the bottom. 

“Yaz!” He drops off the last step and has the same reaction, arms sweeping her into a tight hug that slowly, she returns, then strengthens, because she _needed_ a good hug a little more than she realized. 

Ryan holds her tight for a minute, then pulls back to grin. “Good to see you, mate.” 

“Now, full disclosure.” Graham starts towards the kitchen. “I might’ve burned dinner.” 

Yaz laughs softly, filled with unexpected fondness. “Oh, Graham, I’d expect nothin’ less.”

“ _But_ I ordered Chinese!” He finishes, one finger raised to emphasize the recovery. “Should be here in a mo. Cuppa in the meantime, Yaz?” 

“Cuppa sounds lovely.” Yaz’s weak smile holds its place, and she follows him into the kitchen. 

Dinner comes knocking at the door a few minutes later and Yaz finds easy conversation coming more naturally than she expected. There’s a specific sense of safety when she’s around the boys. Not a protection, necessarily, because she can look out for herself - but there’s just enough of that remaining sense of _home_ for Yaz to feel secure in Graham and Ryan’s presence. 

They laugh around dinner, swapping stories from the past four months even though Yaz has hardly left the house in six. She finds enough to talk about to keep the clock ticking, and the air blessedly light. Ryan’s recently finished his NVQ, she learns, and now has two job offers on his back that he’s carefully considering. They both sound like great opportunities, and a flutter of pride rises in Yaz’s chest. She knows he’s had lots to overcome to get to that point; dyspraxia, distractions, and a frequent erasure of motivation, but he did it. 

Graham seems to have done a good job at settling. It’s probably easier for him, at his age. Yaz knows he was already starting to wear a bit thin on their adventures before they came to a close, as much as he loved them; as much as they helped him. But he’s come a long way from the widower on the run from his grief. He seems quite healed - put together, remarkably relaxed into his life despite everything he’s seen. 

It’s admirable, and Yaz longs for that type of strength. _Yasmin Khan, never thrown by anything,_ he’d told her, but she was thrown over the edge a long time ago. 

“So how’ve you been, Yaz?” Graham pushes his empty plate forward and sits back comfortably in his seat, eyes scanning hers with unspoken concerns. 

“I’ve been…” She stops herself, a quick debate running through her subconscious on whether to keep it short and sweet; an _I miss her all the time, but I’m okay,_ or to take this opportunity of being the warmest she’s felt in _months_ to unload, fess up, drop her transparent walls and tell Graham and Ryan that she is _absolutely not doing alright._

“Rough.” She says finally, not looking at either of them, honest enough to ease some the tightness in her chest but allusive enough to keep the tears _in_ her eyes where they belong. She’s having the best night she’s had in far too long. No need to drag herself down. 

Graham gives her that sad, fatherly smile that brings tears to her eyes regardless, and Ryan reaches across the kitchen table to lay a hand over Yaz’s arm. 

“That’s okay.” He says simply, as a firm reassurance. “Do you want to talk about it at all?” 

Yaz starts to shake her head, but pauses. She doesn’t want to think about it, let alone vocalize it all, but the weak confession tumbles out of her lips before she can stop it. 

“I miss her…” Her breath hitches, and a tear rolls down her face. “ _So much._ ” 

She doesn’t miss the look exchanged between the two of them before Ryan is standing, crossing over to drop into the seat at Yaz’s left. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and Yaz finds herself leaning into him, trying to quiet stifled sobs that are suddenly bubbling from her throat. 

_She misses her so, so much._

“So do we.” Graham closes his hand over hers as Ryan rubs her arm soothingly. “Every day.” 

Yaz sniffs, head tilted onto Ryan’s shoulder because, again, she feels so _safe_ right now that it vastly outweighs potential embarrassment. She can’t cry in front of her family, they just ask too many questions, but boys already know absolutely everything. 

She feels a _lot_ when she’s around Ryan and Graham, and it hurts, but at least she feels something. 

She takes another minute to compose herself, wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve before tucking her hands back in her pocket. “So, Graham, what’s this about you gettin’ attacked by a pigeon?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always greatly appreciated! We as writers love that sweet sweet validation


	3. senses

”I did get it right this time, didn’t I?” That same old navy blue World War II coat licks at Jack’s knees as he closes the remaining distance in long strides. He’s all dull tones and dust ridden, old timey suspenders and aged boots that the Doctor can smell regretfully from her spot on the floor. “Because quite frankly, I’m gonna be disappointed if not.” 

He’s the picture of familiarity. Nostalgia or any of its cousins are usually accompanied with a heavy weight on the Doctor’s hearts, any and all good memories matched by the severity of the bad, but a listless smile creeps onto her face as she tilts her head back against the wall. Face bathed in starlight and a nearly forgotten sense of hope bubbling in her chest, she beams at him weakly.

“Third time’s the charm.” He’s a bit hazy looking, blurred at the edges and fading in and out of view like a dream. For a moment she’s suspicious, holding loosely to her hope and keeping it from blossoming. 

“Sixth, actually.” Jack brushes dust off the shoulders of his coat, coughing once and shaking some more out of his hair. The particles drift like a cloud through the ray of starlight above the Doctor’s head, and she raises a slow hand just to disturb it with her fingers. “I just made two Albarians’ and a Tru’kiel’s _day._ And one Albarian is having a much better day than the other, if you catch my drift.” 

“I always catch your drift, unfortunately.” Her ears are ringing but she doesn’t raise her voice over them, squinting and tilting her head into her palm. “And I’m trying not to be offended that you got so easily distracted.” 

Her brain is working  _ hard  _ to knit itself back together, senses ramped up to eleven and making everything a bit too loud; a bit too vibrant, a bit too much. All feeding off of each other and creating a cacophony; an utter chaos of the crossed wires in her brain, slowly working to untangle themselves. 

Jack goes uncharacteristically quiet, any responding quip lost to his own consideration as he looks down at her, frowning but patient as she shifts heavy legs in an attempt to stand. 

“How long’ve you been stuck here?” He reaches out a hand without asking if she needs it, and that happy-go-lucky tone goes dark with poorly concealed concern. “I mean I didn’t expect you to be jumping up and down with joy, but a reaction would be nice.” The intended humor dies upon landing as Jack inspects her a little more closely, a little more intently, and he grasps the Doctor’s hand firmly when she misses his on the first reach. 

Physical contact hasn’t meant a thing to the Doctor in a long time. Once upon a time it was a fleshy need, a grounding tactic; a grip on her best friend’s hand a grip on reality itself, a hug after a close call a necessary reminder to each other that they’re okay, they’re alive. 

Once upon a following time, when she woke from an agonized flash to a head of grey and lines he could  _ feel  _ etched into the face he’d frowned himself. Suddenly, touch burned his skin - set his nerves on fire and sent deep discomfort crawling through every fiber of his being. Left him twitching, aching to be freed. He couldn’t breathe if someone was touching him.  _ Except for Clara, of course. It was always easier to breathe around her.  _

When the Doctor changed again, touch suddenly meant nothing. She neither appreciated it, nor discouraged it. It never really popped into her mind anymore, to pull her friends close and remind herself that they’re okay, they’re alive. Maybe the sound of their breathing is enough, or maybe her skin is already too scorched for the risk to be worth it. 

But that doesn’t really apply now, because it’s been 18 months since she’s even had the option to hold a hand besides her own. Jack’s fingers close gently, but securely around her wrist as he carefully tugs her upward, and the contact is welcomed.  _ Blessed,  _ and most definitely appreciated. 

Once she’s up, she’s sinking immediately. She hasn’t had a good enough reason to use her legs the past few days, and now that she does they’re not fit for the job. 

Jack catches her against his chest, strong, safe arms wrapped around her waist and holding her in place. The Doctor lets out a shaky breath as her head drops against his shoulder, her arms fold around him and press into his back in a relenting act of acceptance. This, she knows, her imagination isn’t capable of constructing. 

“You look rough.” He chuckles against her hair, and he’s probably getting a kick out of how small she is in this regeneration. He’s holding her upright like it’s nothing. “Miss me that much?” 

She smiles into his shoulder, eyes closing and reveling in the sheer  _ realness _ of the moment; the sight of him, the  _ feel  _ of him, the sound of his voice, because she was getting so tired of her own. The fact that it’s Jack’s,  _ Jack’s -  _ is the cherry on top. 

“You wish.” Her smile grows a little, weak as it is, and she loosens her hold on him while willing her legs back into proper function. “Sorry,” she hums absentmindedly, allowing Jack’s steadying hand on her shoulder as she sways and finds her stance. “Been on low power mode for a bit.” 

“So how long?” He asks again, with a serious gaze attempting to catch hers. 

“Thirteen thousand one hundred and forty-two hours, fourteen minutes, fifty-eight seconds and…” she spills out immediately, automated, and her eyes flicker down to her limp hands at her sides, and the fingers that no longer stamp the passage of time into her palms. 

“In here the whole time?” Jack clarifies, eyes recapturing hers. 

She breathes out a laugh that’s no longer matched with a smile, simply nodding. 

“You’re not cut out for solitary confinement.” Jack teases. “I could last a lifetime in here. Hell, I lasted a couple in a space a quarter of the size. It was 1936 and I met a  _ very  _ handsome undertaker -”

“- Story for another time.” The Doctor waves him off, wrinkling her nose. “I’d love to catch up and all, but if you’re here to give me a lift, I’d like to get a shift on.” 

“Ah, yes. And what’s your knight in shining armor without his-” Dramatically, Jack draws up his sleeve to show off his vortex manipulator. “-  _ horse _ .” 

The Doctor blinks at him for a moment, then shakes her head. “You’re not funny, you know.” 

“Oh, come on. A little appreciation.” 

“Any implication that I’m a  _ damsel in distress  _ will go very much unappreciated.” She crosses her arms loosely, and Jack winces. 

“Well you  _ do  _ look a bit distressed, and it looks good on you, by the way.” Jack eyes her up and down, brow pinched in mock scrutiny. “But I think you were a bit more of a damsel earlier on.” 

“Should’ve seen me last go ‘round.” The Doctor chuckles wistfully, eyelids low and head tilted slightly to one side, sighing. “He was a right basket case. Came through in the end, though. I think.” 

Jack’s lips twitch into a fond, cheeky grin, and something about  _ that  _ look specifically has her hearts singing with contentment, her head light with relief. Sight for sore eyes is the king of all understatements. 

“Right. Any idea where the TARDIS is?” Jack lifts his wrist and holds readied fingers above the vortex manipulator. 

The Doctor nods briefly. “She’ll be fine where she is for a little bit longer. Take me to Sheffield first.” 

“Well there’s a surprise.” Jack huffs, obediently inputting the requested coordinates. “Figured you’d be itching to get back to your ship by now. Why Sheffield?” 

“My friends are there.” The Doctor breathes, a concoction of guilt and grief momentarily sending her head spinning and anchoring her in place. 

“You must be especially fond of those three to prioritize them over the TARDIS.” Jack grabs the Doctor’s hand when their destination is set. “Personally, Ryan’s my favorite.” 

“They think I’m dead.” She states, heavy hearted, because they were so  _ sad  _ when she last saw them. She’s seen grief on their faces before; it hit hard and vibrant when Grace died. But the individual expressions of despair,  _ helplessness _ , and a touch of a plea on their faces when she said her goodbyes are going to be seared into her hearts for the rest of time, she’s sure of it. She can’t help but be excited to surprise them, alive and relatively intact, and replace that memory of teary eyes with one of unadulterated joy. 

“Well then today’s their lucky day.” Jack wraps his fingers tighter around the Doctor’s and raises their joined hands, his free one readied over the activation button. “This might be a bit more unpleasant than usual.” He warns, then presses down on the button before the Doctor can respond. 

She didn’t think about that, actually, the fact that her senses have been malnourished for the past 18 months, in contrast to the physical and mental strain of  _ any  _ teleportation. A vortex manipulator is the short end of that stick; cheap, and nasty. To this day, the Doctor can’t fathom a description that suits it better.

Going from next to nothing to absolutely  _ everything  _ in the span of a nanosecond is well beyond ‘unpleasant’. The Doctor can actually  _ feel  _ her body and mind being ripped apart, tossed into the air like confetti, then snapped back into place like an elastic band. 

A flash, an explosion of every color in every known and unknown galaxy, and the Doctor and Jack zap into the Sheffield night. 

She immediately buckles over once the fizzing settles, arms curling around her middle and a groan slipping between clenched teeth. Jack’s a sturdy presence at her side, a hand on her arm to keep her from making a fool of herself by toppling face first into the dirt. 

“Yeah, figured that might happen.” He pats her shoulder twice as she rides out an intense wave of nausea, the pins and needles tingling her hands and weakening her knees. “Sensory overload to say the least.” 

“The  _ least. _ ” The Doctor grunts, taking a few steadying breaths as the sickness subsides. “Blimey, is that how it feels for humans?” 

“The first couple times,  _ oh  _ yeah. Sucks, doesn’t it?” Jack relaxes his hands into his pockets when the Doctor straightens, steadier on her feet but still breathing away the after effects. “So,” he takes a proper glance at his surroundings. “Where do these friends of yours live?” 

“Close.” Hands on her hips to help her chest feel a little less constricted, the Doctor nods down the street. “Ryan and Graham are closest. Suppose I’ll go see them first.” 

“Want me to hang back?” Jack’s short hair is rustled subtly by the push of the wind while his coat flaps almost theatrically. 

The Doctor nods, meeting his eyes with ones tinged with gratefulness. “Yeah, could be emotional, and you don’t do emotional.” 

“Hey, I do it better than you.” He retorts, “But you do seem a bit better at the emotions thing this time around.” 

“On a good day.” She scoffs at herself, because even that is far fetched. “But I’ve had eighteen months to do nothing but think about what happened before I got locked in that cell, and really  _ really  _ miss my fam, so I suppose that’ll wake up the amygdala.” 

“You know, I thought Owen made up that word the first time I heard it.” Jack grins wistfully. “Also, you’re really milking the eighteen months thing aren’t you?” 

It takes her a moment to catch the teasing glint in his eye and she almost bucks up, retort readied on the tip of her tongue, but Jack’s now questioning, pinched expression stops the words in her throat. 

“So you gave the lone Cyberman what it wants.” It’s posed somewhat as a question, masked with innocent curiosity - nothing deep or suspicious in his tone, and that makes it blessedly easy to brush him off. 

“I’ll tell you later.” She diverts him with a dismissive wave of her hand, and after testing her balance with a couple experimental steps she starts more confidently in the direction of a Graham’s flat. “Stick around, Harkness, no running off without saying goodbye.” 

Jack thankfully lets the topic go, lifting a hand to wave at her as she walks out of sight. “Nah, that’s your job.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i don’t ship the doctor and jack   
> me after writing this chapter: oh


	4. ghost of hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s gonna be a fifth chapter after this!! Sorry this took so long, I’ve been dead for like 3 weeks. It’s funny how quarantine started and I was like “okay cool, gonna have all the time in the world to finish this fic” and i’ve hardly written a damn tHING
> 
> Anyways, hope you’re up for a little more angst because that’s what you’re getting

She’s glad it’s night time in Sheffield. The streets are quiet and still, the stars provide a low, easy light to navigate by and don’t put a strain on sensitive eyes. Cool, evening wind sends her hair billowing in all directions, her deteriorating coat waving and floating with the push, and the Doctor stops in place for a moment. Lets it’s chill bite mercifully against her skin, closes her eyes and sucks in a lung full through her nose.

She’s forgotten what proper air and non-artificial oxygen felt like. Smelled like,  _ tasted  _ like, even. The familiarity is unexpectedly consuming, and when Graham and Ryan’s flat comes into view, the sense of  _ coming home  _ that bubbles in her chest and lightens her hearts is almost overwhelming. 

The Doctor can’t help but rattle a few practice lines around in her head as she nears, anticipation tingling her fingers and leaving her palms clammy.  _ Miss me?  _ No, of course they missed you.  _ Hello! I’m not a ghost.  _ Too insensitive? She’s usually quite witty, quite good with the dramatic surprises and one-liners to mark a good entrance. 

Her legs are still a bit wonky, steps stuttering every once in a while, knees trying to give out here and there, but eagerness loans a bit of extra strength and soon she’s standing at the edge of Graham and Ryan’s front lawn. 

There’s a red car parked outside, and the Doctor isn’t sure why the make and model are particularly familiar until she recalls a conversation with Ryan from  _ ages  _ back. He’d shown her a picture of this car once, and while she hadn’t really been listening to the quite unimpressive list of perks and features, she did remember picking up on the fact that it’s something he’s wanted for a long time. A goal of his, in his own personal life that she never paid enough attention to. Looks like he finally had the opportunity to achieve it. 

She slips around behind the car and sees a  _ Sheffield College 2021  _ bumper sticker on the back, and a proud smile spreads slowly across her face. Ryan’s doing quite well for himself, then. 

Her hearing is already impressive, but 18 months of radio silence have left everything heightened, easier to tune into, and the sound of laughter coming from the flat fills her ears loudly.

The Doctor lifts her head to see Graham and Ryan sitting around the dinner table, laughing and snacking out of takeout boxes. The curtains are drawn to the side and the window is exposed, the warm light of their dining room standing stark against Sheffield night. The Doctor can see easy smiles through the glass and it’s nearly infectious, but there’s an unexpectedly painful tug on her hearts keeping her expression relatively still. 

Yaz is there too, she realizes, but she’s positioned away and the Doctor can’t see her face. She looks alright though, happy, surely. 

The Doctor doesn’t move from what’s now become a hiding place behind Ryan’s car. 

They’re all chatting giddily amongst themselves, expressions relaxed and joyful as they talk about the weather, tell terrible jokes, or whatever it is humans typically do over dinner. She can’t quite stitch together what they’re saying, but whatever it is, they all three seem remarkably…

Okay. 

Not that she expected anything less. Not that she  _ hoped  _ for anything less, of course. She’s been away for longer than the four of them were together. If any of them grieved for her in the first place, they’re doing okay now. 

For some reason, that knowledge leaves her stomach in knots, and for a moment, she hates herself for it. Happiness looks good on them, and she would never wish anything else on the people closest to her. 

The Doctor’s face slowly crumples and she moves to sit on the pavement, leaning against Ryan’s car, hidden from sight. 

They’re okay. 

She swallows thickly and tries to breathe away the sorrow accumulating in her chest, the beginnings of a grief of her own. 

They’re okay right now, but if she goes blundering in she’ll just mess everything up. They deserve better than her. 

Ryan’s settled, obviously. He’s probably got his NVQ by now, or nearly, or he’s doing something bigger and better. He’ll make a great mechanic, or whatever he decides to do, and the Doctor hopes he loves every second of it. 

Graham, she knows, will be content as long as he has Ryan to look after, or at least to guide. She’s witnessed his ongoing battle with his wife’s death, and witnessed him win, more or less. At the very least, he’s gathered the tools he needs to carry on. Dragging him and Ryan back into the box would only be a disruption. They’re doing  _ remarkable  _ on their own.

And Yaz,  _ oh, Yaz.  _ So strong willed, so kind and compassionate, so  amazing  at absolutely everything she does. She’s probably a sergeant by now, or a lieutenant or something. Whatever she’s doing, the Doctor knows she’s doing it wonderfully. Yaz could thrive in any hardship, on any planet, in any time period. Impossibly resilient, she is - the Doctor will probably miss her the most. 

Maybe she  _ could  _ just say a quick hello. Let them know she’s alive, then say her goodbyes. 

_ No.  _ No more goodbyes. 

Slowly, she begins to accept the fact that she’ll never see them again. It’s for the best. They’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant, all of them. They’ll be fine. They’ll be _more_ than fine. Herself, on the other hand...

Even slower, the Doctor stands, and begins with shuffling, disheartened steps away from the flat. Shoulders sagging, hearts heavy. 

“Gonna miss you, fam.” She whispers, not looking back, and drops cold hands into her coat pockets. 

At the sound of a door opening and muffled voices suddenly becoming much clearer, the Doctor tenses, then after a quick look around darts back to duck behind Ryan’s car. 

“Thank you, both of you.” Yaz is saying, and the Doctor cups her hand around her eyes to peer through the car windows. She can’t resist snagging one more memory before she goes to find Jack. 

“Any time, love. I mean it.” Graham steps forward to pull Yaz into a hug. 

“Don’t be a stranger.” Ryan puts a hand on her shoulder once Graham lets her go. “Call us, come over all you like, or we can come to you if you don’t mind me and Sonya bein’ in the same room.” He smirks. 

“Oh yeah,” Yaz takes a slight step back, head tilted thoughtfully. “How did she get  _ your  _ number?” 

Ryan shrugs dramatically. “Absolutely no idea. Tryin’ not to think about it too much.” 

Have they not seen each other in a while? Bit surprising, but it happens. 

“See you soon, Yaz?” Graham’s question has the faintest hint of a challenge to it. 

“See you soon.” Yaz agrees, lifting a hand to wave at the boys as they step back inside and shut the door behind them. 

When Yaz turns around the Doctor instinctively ducks out of sight, waits a beat, then pulls herself back up to peer just over the top of the car. 

The smile Yaz wore mere seconds ago has faded completely, and the Doctor watches with fearful interest as her face just sort of… crumbles. 

It’s such a sudden contrast that she finds herself rooted in place, fingers flexing in their grip on Ryan’s car. Yaz’s arms come to wrap around herself as she lifts her chin up, stares daggers into the night sky and takes a strong breath in like she’s trying to compose herself. It hitches on the way out and comes out like a… 

A cry. 

Yaz is crying. Yaz is  _ crying.  _

She presses the back of her hand to her mouth like she’s trying to stifle it, drops her head to her chest like she’s given up. Shoulders sagging weakly, slow steps as she turns to walk home and oh -  _ oh  _ this is harder than the Doctor thought it would be. She should have left sooner, when her final memory of them would have purely consisted of smiles and laughs and _good._ This isn’t good.

The Doctor has to plant her feet firmly to the ground when she’s overwhelmed with a rush of  _ go to her,  _ because she can’t walk away like this. Especially not without knowing why Yaz is crying. 

She’s seen Yaz cry approximately four times, always reluctant tears and a visible attempt to hold them back. This is so,  _ so _ different, and the Doctor can’t just leave her alone. 

But she  _ has to.  _ She has to. 

The Doctor turns to leave, tensed and more than a tiny bit scarred, Yaz’s muffled, barely audible sobs fading with the distance. With every step, there’s an equal force pushing her forwards and pulling her backwards, and she doesn’t make it far. 

The Doctor flips a switch whether she means to or not, changes her mind, and doesn’t stop to rationalize.

_ Sod it.  _ Maybe she can squeeze in more than one good memory. 

The Doctor turns back, pace quickened with a newfound energy as she jogs across Graham and Ryan’s front lawn, trips over a potted plant in her boundless hurry. The commotion brings attention to her immediately, and as she’s clambering to her feet the front door opens to a frozen, wide eyed Graham O’Brien.

“Doc?” He blinks once, twice just in case. 

“Hiya, Graham.” She says a little nervously, and yep, the look on his face was definitely worth the risk. She might change her mind later, but satisfaction wins the race against guilt, brightens her eyes with a smile as Graham laughs in sheer surprise. “Sorry about your plant, but -” She hastily turns around, Yaz barely visible in the far off distance, then rounding a corner and vanishing entirely. The Doctor looks back to Graham with twitching hands, mouth slightly agape. “I -”  _ I don’t have time to explain.  _

“Go on, then.” He laughs out, joy shining in wide, red-rimmed eyes as he waves her away. “You’re about to make that girl’s bloody night.” 

The Doctor’s eyes crinkle with thanks and she hurries away, paying specific mind to potted plants this time as Graham hollers to Ryan from behind her. She’ll get to them properly in a mo’. 

She slows to a stop once rounding the corner, Yaz still a good few paces ahead but moving sluggishly, lifelessly, arms folded against the rush of wind. Her flat isn’t far now, and the Doctor swallows around a lump in her throat. 

“Yaz!” 

Yaz whirls around, puffy, teary eyes blown wide and the Doctor takes two uncertain steps forward. 

Yaz takes a single, staggering step back and her hands fall to her sides. 

A sharp breath of disbelief, and she chokes on the single word. “ _ Doctor? _ ”

The Doctor wants to smile, because her hearts are absolutely  _ soaring,  _ light and fluttering with relief, hope, and a pinch of longing, but there’s an undercurrent of aching empathy that pulses stronger than it has in a long time, because Yaz is crying. Yaz is  _ crying,  _ and it hurts more than seeing her again feels good. 

“Yaz, what’s wrong?” She’s suddenly not sure what to do with her hands, hovering them steadily in front of her as if sudden movement might scare her off. They’re still a good few paces apart, but the Doctor can make out the questioning wrinkles at her brow, the confusion deepening her frown, and the crying has stopped, but the disbelief in her eyes largely outweighs the ghost of hope. 

“Y… you’re…” Yaz’s face falls even more, and this is  _ not  _ how the Doctor pictured this moment going. The heels of her palms dig into her eyes and she groans something low, frustrated, and so  _ so  _ tired that feels like an insurmountable weight dropping onto the Doctor’s chest. 

Yaz’s hands fall to her sides and she sniffs, refocuses on the Doctor, and a portion of the disbelief seems to have left her eyes. 

“Please tell me that’s really you.” 

It’s worrying, how soft her voice is, like she’s scared of the question, even more of the answer. The Doctor closes the distance by a couple more steps and when she’s within arm’s reach, extends a hand towards Yaz’s shoulder only to draw it back on a second thought. 

“Yaz, it’s me.” It’s so human, the way Yaz’s tears end up being contagious, filling the Doctor’s eyes and weakening her voice. “Are you… what’s the matter?” 

The final traces of suspicion slip away, and the confirmation leaves Yaz momentarily paralyzed. Her frown stays in place, lips parting but words dying in the works. The Doctor gingerly reaches for Yaz’s shoulder again, and finds herself being pulled into her arms so suddenly it nearly sends the both of them toppling over. 

“Whoa -”

“- You’re here.” Yaz fists her hands in the back of the Doctor’s coat, holding her so close the Doctor can feel her heart pounding against her chest. It takes a moment to unravel her arms then she’s quick to curl them tight around Yaz’s waist, buries her face in the side of her neck, and takes a deep breath. 

She became quite skilled at constructing people and places from nothing during imprisonment. The imitations felt so real at the time in contrast to the same shades of black every time her eyes reopened. 

But this is  _ so  _ much better. 

Yaz is crying silently into her coat, the Doctor can feel her shoulders hitching and chest heaving, and she should probably say something really encouraging right now, but can’t think of anything. She can’t think of anything at  _ all  _ to say actually. It’s like her head’s been turned upside down and emptied like a piggy bank. 

So she ends up stealing Jack’s line instead. “Miss me that much?” 

Yaz’s breath against her shoulder stills for a beat and then the Doctor’s being squeezed a little tighter, a little closer, and everything but the warmth of this moment becomes a little less important. 

“ _ Yeah _ .” 

The heartbreaking honesty is a splash of cold water and chills her to the bone, and the Doctor’s previous misconceptions go flying out the window. 

Yaz is not okay. 

“I’m back. I’m alright.” The Doctor reassures softly, and her hold on Yaz is no longer just a comfort now. She’s boiling with a need to keep her safe in whatever way it’s needed. Her arms around her become a shield, and close in a little more. “I’ve got you, Yaz.” 

And she might not be able to let go this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you’re bearing with me here!!! Some nice words would be hella appreciated right now. 
> 
> I’m rewatching s12 and it’s given me a boost so MAYBE the next chapter won’t take me ages. Thank y’all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always really encouraging and appreciated :) I’m hoping I can keep up my writing buzz through the whole hiatus


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